


The Runaway

by starlight_searches



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:47:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26486659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlight_searches/pseuds/starlight_searches
Summary: It was supposed to be like any other bounty. Just another job. But when  Din Djarin meets a runaway trying to escape a tragic past and a bleak  future, everything changes.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, Mando/reader, Mando/you, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 5
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Series Warnings: Language, canon-typical violence, mentions of abuse.
> 
> AN: In honor of the season 2 trailer dropping today, here’s the first chapter of my new fic! Please be mindful of the warnings—this story is going to deal with some pretty heavy themes in terms of abuse and revenge. Also, the reader is described as having a scar near their collar bone, but that’s the only physical description I’ll be giving! Thanks for reading!

Din can't stop to catch his breath, not when he's finally got you in his sights again, but gods, it feels like his lungs are on fire. He had been skeptical when he first saw the puck— _how had someone like you been able to evade the Guild for this long?_ —but now he thinks he’s finally starting to get it. He was wrong to underestimate you.

You weave through the stacks of discarded junk, turning corners, leaping over obstacles, always just out of reach, and Din's hand itches for his blaster. He wouldn't kill you, obviously, but right now he's willing to consider anything that might stop this chase. It's only Greef's voice, echoing in his head on repeat that stops him. _Unharmed. Not a scratch._ He had been warned that the bounty would be heavily reduced if you came back with even a minor injury. But maybe the threat of it would slow you down.

Din removes his blaster from the holster, gripping it hard in a leather-clad hand just as you turn another corner, venturing deeper into the junkyard maze. He catches the flash of your eyes just before you disappear again, and he knows that you've seen the weapon. It was only for a moment that your eyes meet his through the mask, but a moment is all it takes for him to see it. You're terrified. Terrified of _him_.

"I won't hurt you," he calls out, before he remembers himself, remembers that's not a promise that he can afford to make, "just stop running." Din follows you around the corner before sliding to a halt; he had thought you were following a path you knew well, but you must have taken the wrong turn because you've found a dead end. You're backed against a wall of ship parts and refuse, breathing hard, looking feral—a caged animal. Din keeps his blaster lowered, but he's cautious in his approach. He's seen that look before. It's a look that gets rookie bounty hunters killed on the first job. They're fooled into thinking that it's the size of their target that makes them a threat, but they're wrong. It's always in the eyes.

He can finally get a good look at you, now that you're trapped with nowhere to go. He hardly recognizes you from the holo on your puck—if you hadn't tried to slip from the cantina the second you caught sight of him, he could have missed you completely. It's not just age either, although the holo is clearly a few years old. That girl, with her harmless features and demure smile, wouldn't have lasted a week in this city. _You_ , on the other hand, you look like you could run the place.

"Don't fight and I won't shoot," he inches closer, waiting to see if you'll make your move, but you balance on the knife-edge of action and surrender. "I can bring you in warm," he continues out of habit, in the same calm, commanding tone, hoping to tip the scales in favor of the latter, "or cold."

The moments pass in silence, just the sound of your breathing and the quiet scuttle of whatever creatures lurked in a dump like this. Your eyes grow wide as you contemplate your options, the emotions so clear on your face it’s almost like Din can hear your thoughts—you still want to run. Then something inside of you breaks; your resolve crumbles. "Please," you beg him, your bottom lip quivering as you drop your head in submission. The fight leaves you immediately, and its absence shrinks you, makes you fold in on yourself, looking small defenseless. Din is struck with the uncomfortable reminder that you're not a typical bounty. You're not a bail jumper. You're not some criminal. You're just a runaway.

He holsters the blaster before he approaches and cuffs you as gently as he can, ignoring the way you tremble, the shuddering tearless sobs that break through your parted lips. It's part of the job. He can handle it.

"Please," you beg once more. He’s caught up in your eyes like a magnet, eyes so full of pain and a fear so potent that he almost considers letting you go. _Almost_. He banishes the idea with a deep breath and a short tug on the binders, pulling you along behind him for the trek back to the _Crest_. The word stays with him, though, playing through his mind in time with every step: _please, please, please._ It isn't until much later that he realizes exactly what you were asking for.

You don't speak once you arrive back at the ship. There's no more begging, no crying, no chatter. You've retreated deep inside yourself and all that's left is a stony exterior. Normally, he'd be grateful for the quiet. He _should_ be grateful for the quiet. So why he feel the need to keep checking on you over his shoulder?

Din leads you to your seat in the cockpit and you take it, your empty eyes trained on the viewport as he prepares for take-off. He catches himself staring, once, twice, three times before he manages to snap out of it. You're fine. He doesn't need to worry. And he doesn't want you to catch him looking. Not that it would matter if he stared at you outright; you won't even look at him.

"I'll be taking you to Nevarro. Your father will meet us there." His words catch your attention, and now you return his gaze with force.

"Did you meet with my father-" something changes when you speak—suddenly you’re staring at him with a look that could start fires, "-when you accepted this job?" The uncomfortable feeling deep in the pit of Din's stomach only grows, a sickening shiver that worms its way under his beskar and spreads over his skin like a poison.

"No." Din distracts himself, taking his seat and checking his controls, "I was hired through the Bounty Hunter's Guild." He had hoped to escape the pressure of your eyes, but he can’t hide from the heat of it, heat like the forge in the armory. It’s permeated the air of the cockpit, heavy and inescapable.

You only hum in response, a sound that generates thousands of questions for Din that he's not sure how to ask, but you take his silence as an opportunity to ask more questions of your own. "Did they tell you why I ran away? Or why my father was so _adamant_ that I came back in one piece?"

Din manages to shake his head in response, and seeing it, you relax the smallest amount. You speak with a voice that stays calm and clear, "My father didn't want anyone else to kill me because he wants to do it himself."

Din's blood is ice in his veins. There’s a gasp, or maybe a cry that wants to force its way out of his throat, but what comes out instead is only a question, "How do you know that?" The _Razor Crest_ is ready for take off, but Din hesitates with his hand over the lift-off control. Seconds pass by, stretching out into an eternity as he contemplates what you just said. _He wants to do it himself._ It’s not possible. It couldn’t be true. Slowly, Din drops his hand, turning in his seat to face you.

You try to hide it—the relief that you feel, knowing that he'll listen, that he might believe you—but you haven’t masked it entirely, and, unfortunately for Din, the sincerity of your demeanor only chips away at more of his doubt. You shift forward in your seat, the move made a little more difficult by the bindings, but you manage. "I know because he told me so." Your voice is laden with power, your words spoken so vehemently that they carry their own weight. You want him to believe you so badly, but a part of Din, the part that craves distance—the part that _needs_ these credits—wishes he could believe that you were lying.

He watches as your cuffed hands crawl up your torso, towards the neckline of your tunic, inching it down to expose more of your skin. A jagged scar grows from the hem of your collar, stark against the skin around it. "He gave me this-" you say, gesturing to the mark with a jut of your chin, "-the last time I saw him. Told me that when he found me he was going to finish the job. He's a cruel man. He won't be quick about it. He'll want to see me suffer."

Your eyes remain fathomless as you look back at Din, so matter-of-fact about this threat on your life, but Din can't pull his own eyes away from the scar. His voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s still loud enough that a tremble can be heard through the vocoder when he asks, "why are you telling me this?"

"Because I think you can help me." There's a slight release when he hears those words—just the barest ease of the pressure on his chest. There's a solution to this problem, a way he can be absolved of any guilt for what's happened to you, the part he unwittingly played. He'd miss out on his payday, but at least he wouldn't wake up every night in a cold sweat. At least he wouldn't be haunted by the sight of that scar. By your fire-starting gaze.

"I'll take you somewhere—wherever you want to go." Din turns back to the control panel, bringing the ship up, running through a mental list of planets where he could leave you, somewhere you could be safe. He's pulled from his focus with a slight tug, your hand on his shoulder, the touch heavy, and intense, like he can feel every one of your fingers digging into his skin through the pauldron.

"It won't work. He'll keep sending people after me. People like you. I'm tired of running." The pressure is back on Din’s chest, with a crushing, bruising force. It's not that you're hopeless. That might, somehow, make this more bearable. No, you're not hopeless. All your hope is in him.

"Then what do you want me to do?" Din already knows. He already knows, but he hopes he doesn't. He hopes you'll ask something else from him. Anything else.

"Isn't it obvious?" you ask, reading him without seeing the droplets of sweat at his temples, the way he tugs his lip between his teeth, "I want you to—how did you put it?—' _bring me in cold_.'"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Din Djarin x f!reader
> 
> Series Warnings: Language, canon-typical violence, mentions of abuse.
> 
> AN: No additional warnings for this chapter! Let me know what you think 💖

" _No_ ," the word rips from him, automatic, unstoppable and a sick buzzing fills Din’s ears. He wouldn't do this. Couldn't do this. He wasn't going to _kill_ you.

"Why not?" You're surprised, somehow, disappointed that he's resistant to the thought of ending your life. Din isn't a fool, he knows that he is uncommonly accustomed to violence compared to most. His made a career in bloodshed, but it's different for you—violence has become a part of you, like that scar. It's shaped your world. You don't recognize the toll it would take on him. The price that should be paid when one person hurts another.

"I'm not going to kill you." Once again, Din is finding himself feeling woefully unprepared. He’s finally adjusted to life with the child—almost feeling _normal_ again after everything that had happened. He took this job to _get back to it_ , as Cara had suggested, a wish that seems futile now. There was no returning to the closed-off, black and white life he had before. His world had already been blown wide open, and there was no going back.

“I know that I’m asking . . . a lot,” you say, leaning in closer, “but there’s no way out of this for me. Not alive. If you take me back to my father, I’m dead. If you take me to some other planet, I’ll be hunted again, and then I’ll end up dead. If that's all that there is left for me, I want it to be on my terms.” You see all of him, he thinks, as you place your hand against the breast plate, begging. The pressure of your fingers is distributed by the beskar, masking the familiarity that this kind of contact should bring, but Din still flinches. It’s too hot aboard the ship, too hot for all the layers Din wears. He can’t remember the last time he felt this uncomfortable in his armor—can’t remember the last time he wished for some other title, for something else besides the helmet and the Clan.

“I won’t do it.” Din stands from the pilot’s seat, crossing his arms over his chest. He looms over you, hoping you can see that he means it—his mind has been made. Before you can react, he’s released the cuffs, pulling them from your wrists and reattaching them to his belt. You turn to watch him as he walks towards the exit hatch, any question you could ask dying on your lips. The air turns solid with possibility, both of you watching each other, neither sure what you might say, what journey could begin from this small act.

“We have food,” Din finally speaks, cursing internally—it sounds stupid and hollow after the conversation you've just had, but he presses on. “Would you like to eat?”

————————————————————

You sit on the cot below deck, eyes flitting around every part of the cargo area as you pick at the food he's found for you—some hard cheeses, a few dried fruits. Din stands against the wall, watching you in the low light. Sunlight streams in through the open hatch, along with a soft, warm breeze, but neither make it too far into the ship, as if stopped by some invisible force, keeping the atmosphere dim and private.

Din takes his eyes off of you for just a moment, glancing without turning his head towards the child's cradle in the corner. He's still asleep, as he had been when Din first came down the ladder to check on him, instructing you to wait at the top for just a moment, to make sure that everything was in order, that there'd be no _surprises_. He didn't think that you'd try to hurt him, or run, or, _gods forbid_ , hurt yourself, but he can't be too careful. You've made it clear you have nothing to lose.

When he looks back to you, Din finds that your eyes are already on him, and he tenses minutely under the full force of your gaze, his face growing hotter, and for a moment he wonders if you'll notice the red in his cheeks—before he remembers.

"Tell me about your father," he says, hoping to distract himself from his momentary lapse, and you startle, unaware that you had been engaged in an impromptu staring contest. It does make Din feel better—at least he's not the only one who feels caught of guard.

"My father is Iven Avishar. He owns half of the Nothiri system. And the first time he tried to kill me, I was eleven years old." You sit down the plate, crossing your arms over your chest and looking up at Din with a challenge in your eyes.

"You're an Avishar?" Din knew your father by name only, heard it after traveling once or twice to the Nothiri system for a stray bounty—an occasional bail dodger who didn't know any better. The Nothiri system isn't an easy place to live; it's not an easy place to hide.

"I don't claim his name," your voice is harsh, almost a shout before you catch yourself, dropping your gaze and your volume, "sharing blood is bad enough." Just speaking your father's name has diminished you—made you cold. Your collar shifts, the tip of your scar peaking out at the edge, and Din feels a shiver crawl up his spine just looking at it.

"What happened the last time?" he asks, lifting his eyes back to yours, but he's still breathing hard. It's an attempt to distract himself, to get the facts, but everything comes back to this: to the scar, to this act of violence and threat of death that's shaped it—you can't get away from it. And now he can't either.

"Uh, it was a few years ago, I don't really remember how many. He accused me of stealing from him, pulled a blade—he was always so _angry_ when he drank. I was tired of living in fear-" you pause, running a contemplative hand over your lip, and then more quietly, "-I still am."

"What did he accuse you of stealing?" Din presses on with his questioning, choosing to ignore the last comment. He needed to treat _this_ , protecting you, as just another job. And that meant sticking to the facts; no room for feeling, no room to notice the softness of the gesture, the tenderness with which you handle yourself despite the brutality of your world.

"Oh, you know. Credits. Jewelry. Anything I could get my hands on. I'm not sure how he noticed, the man has more money than the Maker." You stand and stretch, shaking the tension out of your limbs before examining the interior of the ship a little more closely. Din tracks your movement with his eyes as you circle the small space, giving him a wide berth, "although I guess it was worth it in the end."

You look at him expectantly, but Din doesn't react this time; he’s already learning to steel himself against your gaze. "So you did take it, then? Everything he accused you of stealing?"

"That and more. I was always going to run; I needed funds."

"How much did you get?" Din relaxes minutely—these are easier questions. Safer ones. And he sees that you're relaxed too, now that the conversation has moved past your father. The tension is gone from your shoulders; your voice has lost its edge—almost melodic now.

"Couple million, total, I think. Once I sold the jewelry. All New Republic credits—couldn't afford to be refused." Din felt his eyebrows raise in response. You had said you were surprised your father had noticed, but Din couldn't understand how someone wouldn't notice a loss like that. Then again, given the cavalier way you pair the words _million_ and _credits_ , maybe Avishar really did have more money than the Maker.

This is good news. If you have credits, Din could get the fuel he needed, restock on supplies. And, maybe after a _real_ meal, you'd be more inclined to consider Din's offer. There had to be some planet where you could be safe. "Where's the rest, then?"

"The rest?" Confusion mars your brow, and his expression mirrors your own, not that you could tell. It's funny, he thinks distractedly, how expressive his face is, even after all these years of going unseen. He ignores this thought, after a moment, answering your question by finishing his own, "of the money?"

"Oh, it's gone-" you're so casual again, but Din blanches, "-all of it."

Din is breathing so hard he can hear it both inside and out of the mask. "You spent," he begins with words that should be a question but certainly don't sound like one, " _millions_ of credits that fast?"

"Hey, being on the run is expensive! Travel. Supplies. Bribes." You purse your lips, like making your next admission is particularly painful—if only to your pride, ". . . and I wasn't exactly _frugal_." You cross your arms over your chest defensively, and Din finds himself mirroring you once again, trying to find the words to explain the utter incomprehensibility of someone spending that much money in that little time.

" _No shit_." Din watches as you move through a whole cycle of emotions—every one of them plain on your face. For a moment he thinks you might be angry with him, but your expression changes at the last second; it looks like you're trying to hold in a laugh.

"Enough about me," you say, finally, your sly cough not quite quick enough to cover up the tail-end of a giggle before you’re serious again. "I'm assuming _you_ have a plan, since you rejected mine so quickly."

Din stays quiet. He's still thinking about that shadow of a laugh and what it means. Watching your expressions, reading your body language, it's like being in a city full road signs all written in a language he can't read. He decides to move on, but he files the interaction away for later. "Have you ever thought about killing him?"

You laugh again, but it's different this time—just a short, humorless sound. "Everyday of my life. But it can't be done."

"I could do it." Even as he says it, there's a trickle of regret that seeps into the back of his mind—Din doesn't like to make promises he's not sure he can keep. But the number of alternatives is slowly dwindling, and he doesn't want you to think that _your_ plan is still on the table.

Your eyes are incredulous, and you take a few steps closer to him, your voice like knives. "People like you have tried before. _I've_ tried it before, back when I still believed in happy endings and fairy tales. It won't work."

Din feels accused, almost, like you've caught him in the middle of some disobedient act, but he holds your gaze. You're in his space again, like you were in the cockpit, and it's making it hard for him to think. In some far off corner of his brain, Din absently notices that he's stopped breathing, but he can't be bothered with that now; the majority of his attention is focused on your eyes. There's still a heat behind your gaze—a smouldering intensity and he can't look away from it. Looking in your eyes, he wants to act. He wants to help.

Din swallows; his throat is thick and he doesn't want you to hear it in his voice when he speaks. The words still come out quieter than he intended, "let me try, at least," he clears his throat again, before he continues, "I know some people who might be able to help." Din holds your eye contact, waiting, only breathing when he sees the tension drop from your shoulders.

You sigh, long and deep, "I couldn't pay you."

"I know." It doesn't matter. It's better than the alternative.

You're looking at him so closely, so minutely—searching for the slightest hint that he could be lying to you. He stays where he is, keeps his eyes on you, but he's humming with anticipation as he waits for your verdict. The silence stretches on, and Din feels a faint burn spread through his arms and legs, the strain of keeping still for so long making itself known.

"Well, then," your face stays blank, and Din is left disappointed, just the slightest purse of your lips is all you give him, and it's not enough to interpret. "I guess we have a deal."

You stretch out your hand, waiting for him to shake. Din moves to meet you in the middle, but he hesitates just before he makes contact—remembering the earlier touches and they way they felt, remembering that he’s supposed to keep things _professional_ —before brushing away the reluctance. Your hand rests in his with a pleasant weight and warmth, your skin soft as it moves against the leather of his glove. You shake once, but you don't break the contact just yet, your lips parting and Din feels his hand flex unconsciously in anticipation of your words, but he never gets the chance to hear them, because the next thing out of your mouth is a scream.

"What is that thing?" You stumble backwards a few steps, pointing over Din’s shoulder and he looks, rolling his eyes before pulling the child off from where he clings to Din’s armor, and tucking him under his arm. When had he woken up? And how had he got out of the crib without Din noticing?

“He’s my son,” Din says, and your shock turns to confusion, your brows knitting together. Din decides to clarify, staring down at the child in his arms, "he's a foundling in my care.” 

Your eyes soften now when he looks back at you, lips parting gently and you take in a soft gasp, turning your eyes to the child. The baby coos when you catch his eye, offering you a little wave, flexing his tiny fingers as if he’s trying to pull you closer. You’re a little hesitant, when you take your first steps, looking back to Din for permission, and he gives you a little nod in assurance. You’re incredibly gentle when you stroke a finger along one of the child’s ears, and the ship fills with the sound of the child’s gleeful giggle.

"Where did you find him?" You’ve _definitely_ warmed up to the child, and so quickly, smiling up at Din, and he swallows loudly before taking in a shuddering breath. He’d never seen a smile change someone’s face like that. It surprises him. 

"He was a bounty. The people who wanted him—they were going to hurt him,” Din explains.

"And you saved him.” Din doesn’t argue with that assessment, but he’s never really seen it that way. The child and Din, they had saved each other. 

Din clears his throat, uncomfortable with the way the conversation has turned. He needs to get back on track. "We'll set off for Nevarro," he says, tucking the child back into the crib, "and I still want more information about your father." 

"There'll be plenty of time for that,” you say, moving around behind Din,“but first, we have to go get my stuff." Din looks up, thinking back to the rest of your conversation. You had never mentioned _anything_ about stuff. He turns back, jogging to catch up, you’re already half-way out the door, stepping into the circle of sunshine just inside the door. It only takes a few steps before he’s caught up with you, and he reaches out for you without thinking, grabbing your shoulder and turning to you to face him again. 

"Stuff?" You look up at him sheepishly before pulling gently out of his grasp again, walking back towards the door. 

"We'll be quick, I promise. And it looks like the kid would like to go for a walk,” you’re pointing again, and Din follows the direction of your finger. Sure enough, the child is waddling along towards the door, waiting for the two of you to follow. Din rolls his head back, sucking in a deep breath. Little use in fighting now, and the child could certainly use some fresh air. He looks back at you, giving you a soft nod in defeat, and you smile again. His frustration ebbs a little.

You step out into the sunshine together, walking down the same path he had taken to get you to the Razor Crest, but there’s a spring in your step now, and the smile stays on your face. The child got a bit of a head start, but you catch up with him easily before slowing down, meandering down the dirt path between the endless fields of swaying meadows. 

The silence is comfortable, as you walk, but Din still feels on edge, checking over his shoulder and resting a hand on his blaster, just in case. "Hey,” you interrupt his concentration, pulling his attention back to you before you continue, “what's your name?"

"Mando.” It’s an easy enough question and he lets his attention wander again, assuming his previous stance and searching the surrounding area with his eyes, until you pull his attention again with a soft laugh.

“What’s funny?” Din realizes too late that he probably sounds harsher than necessary—he’s not used to modulating his tone, and he’s certainly not used to having anyone laugh at him. You’re a little chastened by his question, flattening your mouth out of its smile.

"Nothing, it’s just,” you begin, looking at Din out of the corner of your eye, trying to gauge whether or not he’s really upset with you,” That’s what people call you, right? But it's not really your name . . ." You linger there, abandoning the rest of the words you might have planned to say. There’s a prickling sensation hanging around Din’s lungs as he watches you drop your chin to your chest, suddenly incredibly interested in the ground. Your next words are so quiet, Din hardly hears you over the rustling of the grass in the dry breeze, "you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"Din," He’s speaking again without thinking, and you look up at him in surprise, your eyes growing wider. There’s more silence, a significant pause and Din has to fill it, repeating himself stupidly, “my name is Din.”

Both of your attentions are turned when the child coos again, his small hand resting against your leg, and you bend down to take him in your arms, holding him against your side easily before you look back at Din with another reluctant smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Din."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Series Warnings: Language, canon-typical violence, mentions of abuse.
> 
> AN: Near-death experience in this chapter, but that’s the only extra. Feedback is always appreciated!

Din squints into the darkness, hardly able to see even with the adjustment his visor makes to the steadily dwindling light. He doesn’t show it, as he leans up against the rough-hewn entrance to your makeshift home, but there’s a stiffness to his muscles after the journey here—his legs aching underneath the weight of the armor, and the sun had been inescapable, beating down on both of you like the wrath of god. Although it’s setting now, the heat hasn’t abated in the time since and underneath his armor Din’s clothing is clinging to his skin.

“It’s around here somewhere,” Din can just make out your shape now, a dark smudge against blacker surroundings, but you move with confidence and quiet surety as you search around the small space. “Ha! Here it is,” there’s a faint click, and the little hovel you’ve led him to is filled with a yellowing light that stutters against the walls before steadily growing brighter. You swing the flashlight around in small, sweeping motions and Din takes it all in, his heart shriveling in his chest like a life-vest with a leak.

“It’s not much,” you say quietly, watching him out of the corner of your eye, “but it’s far from the worst place I ever lived.” Din doesn’t want to know what those places were like.

You’re hunched over, practically in half, but the dirt of the roof still scrapes at the top of your head, little crumbles of dust nesting in your hair as you move. He has no idea what stuff you’ve planned on grabbing—there’s nothing here worth taking. You’ve got a meager supply of food, stacked against the far wall, high off the ground to keep it away from any pests, but no table, no place to build a fire. There’s no bed, either, just a mat and a blanket so threadbare it seems to be made of holes. He can’t take his eyes off the blanket, the blood draining from his face; for a moment, he thinks he might be sick. His fingers curl in on themselves, twin fists resting at his sides, and he wishes that your father were here, right now. He’d end him.

“Hey,” Din turns at the sound of your voice and finds you kneeling at the edge of the back wall, near the mat and you’re looking up at him expectantly—Din wonders how many times you’ve tried to get his attention. You wait for a moment, and he nods to show that he’s listening. “Can you help me with this?” He’s not sure what this is, as you point at the wall—a gesture that gives him no helpful information—but he agrees, the child following closely behind as he takes his first step inside. 

Din crouches, but only manages one or two half-steps before falling to his knees, which is all it takes to cross the distance from the door to the place where you kneel. You push the flashlight into his empty hands before lowering yourself to the ground. 

Starting in the bottom corner of the room, you rest your palm against the wall, stacking your hand one over the other with careful precision and Din shines the flashlight in your direction without asking any questions. About halfway up the wall, you begin to move towards him, walking your hands along the wall until you’re leaning over him, your body stretched across his without ever moving close enough to touch.

The light falls across your face, your lips moving silently casting strange shadows on the wall behind you before you stop just on the other side of him, the tip of your finger carving a soft _x_ in the wall. “There,” you say quietly, just a soft puff of air against the side of his mask.

You lean back, taking the flashlight from his hands, sitting back on your legs, looking at him expectantly. Din is at a loss.

“I need you to hit the wall where I marked,” you say, characteristically cryptic, “really hard.”

Din looks at the wall, examining it more closely; unlike the rest of the packed-dirt structure, this side seems rock-solid underneath the caked-on, crumbling dust. He hits it hard enough, he could break some fingers, at best. 

You see his skepticism through the mask, shuffling a little closer, “it’s a false wall,” you say, retracing the x with your fingers, “I built it myself when I first came here—couldn’t just leave my stuff out in the open.”

“Why didn’t you keep it under your mat?” Din asks, still hesitant. That was the standard procedure for most of the criminals that Din had encountered, although he’s not sure that you fall into that category. Thieves among thieves will target their own if needed, but it’s futile to try and steal from anyone who sleeps on top of their possessions. Especially when there’s a blade under their pillow. 

You roll your eyes at him, “because that’s the first place everybody looks.” Din makes no move to do as you’ve asked, and you examine him more closely, your eyes searching the mask for the answer to a question that you haven’t yet asked. There’s a pause, a shift in the momentum of this conversation, this _partnership_ , “don’t you trust me?”

Din sighs, rolling his eyes at you and he thinks some part of you knows because you smile as he pulls his fist back, his eyes on the carved _x_.

“Then again, my hands could have grown in the time since-” you blurt out in warning, but Din’s already loosed the punch. He closes his eyes, unwilling to watch the impact, waiting for the snap of bones, but it doesn’t come, his hand crashing through the wall amid a shower of dirt. 

It’s not a large break in the wall—Din can feel both edges of the space you’ve created without much movement, the tips of his fingers brushing the back wall while his wrist is still visible. He pulls his hand from the crevice, brushing the dirt from his glove and you fill the place immediately, shining the light and digging around in the illuminated opening. 

“Here,” you shove something into his hands, still focused on the crack in the wall. Din takes it, glancing down.

His eyes blow wide when he sees the item—a necklace like a collar, made of woven gold and blood-red gemstones. It’s caked with dirt, but still sparkles in the evening light, each stone throwing fractured ruby streaks against the walls of the room.

“Is this real?” Din asks, unable to keep the awe out of his voice. He’s not sure what kind of material the necklace is made of, but it looks expensive. He starts the mental tabulation: fuel costs, food, repairs that need to be made. New weapons to be purchased, toys for the kid. Maybe even an upgrade for his armor.

Before he can finish the thought, you’re shoving more jewelry his way—handfuls of glittering stones and expensive metals. Din sways on his knees, light-headed.

“I think that’s the last of it,” you turn to face him, shifting into a sitting position. You hold your hands out, and Din lets the collection fall into your waiting palms. You begin to sort the baubles into small piles, brushing the debris from each sparkling surface. Din stops your hand as you’re about to place a set of delicate silver bangles next to a jewel-encrusted hair pin.

“What is all this?”

Your eyes flicker with confusion, trying to interpret Din’s response, and honestly, he’s doing the same. His hand stays on your wrist, his grip loose enough that you could break it if you tried, but you don’t, your stare fixed right where his eyes would be.

“You told me you didn’t have anything left. That you sold it all.” His voice shakes as he looks at the extravagant spread, the necessities and indulgences he had been calculating earlier multiplying ten-fold. With this sum, you could buy … anything. But when he looks at you, your expression pained, he’s immediately chastened. There were some things that had no price.

“I lied,” you say gently, watching as the child wanders over to inspect the treasures. Din moves to grab him before he can reach any of it, but you hand him something to play with—a simple golden chain—and he’s mollified for the moment, pulling at the object with his little, green hands.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You both pull your attention away from the kid when Din speaks, and you sigh, brushing a few stray hairs away from your face with a rough hand.

“I didn’t know if you could be trusted. For all I knew you were going to take it all and turn me over to my father anyways.” A huff of air escapes Din’s lips at your statement. There’s plenty you’ve left unsaid, words that weigh heavy on Din’s shoulders, a trust that he can’t fully fathom. It’s not just your life that you’ve placed so fully in his hands—it’s his, too, and the kid’s. With this, and the bounty your father had offered, he could buy a better life: no running, no danger, no bounties. He could find the child’s people, make sure he was safe. And then, after that, he could do anything.

You knew all of this, when you brought him here. Din feels very small, sitting on the floor of this dingy dirt hut in the middle of nowhere, and this choice, this offering, feels much too large.

You push the piles towards him, scooping them all together in your hands. “I want you to have it,” you say through shaky breaths, “for helping me.” 

Din makes no move to take it, although he could. He grabs the strap of his satchel instead, tossing it into your lap.

“Hold onto it for now,” he commands, “I don’t take any payment until the job is completed.” 

You don’t move, lips parted and eyes on him. He thinks he might see the barest hint of tears pooling at the corners of your eyes, but they fall closed, and for the first time, Din can see what this means to you. You want to live. You want to be okay.

You begin clearing up the jewelry, packing it into the satchel, slinging it over your shoulder. That’s when Din hears the noise, footsteps crunching over the terrain outside. He stops you with a finger to his lips, pulling the flashlight towards him and flipping the switch, throwing the room into darkness.

His visor adjusts to the shadows and his eyes follow soon after. You seem to know that something is wrong, and he can see you in the eerie green light that the mask offers as you pull the child into your lap, looking up at him with wide, worried eyes.

Din moves quickly, back on his feet and out the door in mere moments, scanning the black horizon with careful eyes. He catches their flickering light source first—three people, he assumes based on the cadence of the footsteps and the soft chatter between them. The shortest one carries the torch, walking a few steps behind the others, and Din stands casually, waiting for them to notice him. His hand hovers over his hip, and he unlatches the strap on his holster.

“‘S that you, Mando?” The familiar voice, one that grates like gravel against his ears, calls over the distance between them. He was right before; three people approach, but the man in front is the only one he recognizes, and everything gets more complicated. 

“Hello Tate,” Din keeps his voice even, folding his arms over his broad chest, and the light from the torch flickers dangerously off the beskar. He hopes you’re hidden from view, with the child and the satchel. Din could get you all out of this with relative ease, as long as none of them notice your presence. 

“Greef told us you were on the runaway job,” Dev says, and then he chuckles, “he actually told us not to bother.” He shifts his weight, leaning on one leg more heavily than the other. He’s got a blade in his hand, but his grip is casual, and he rests it against his hip. The other two have weapons as well—the zabrak on his right has a dangerous-looking club slung over his shoulder, and the twi'lek on his left carries a blaster in the hand not holding the torch. None of them seem too eager to use them just yet, and he’s not planning on giving them any reason. Still, he shifts again, resting his hand on his own hip, just above his blaster. Better to be safe. 

“We decided to take our chances anyways,” Tate continues, eyeing the change in Din’s posture, “and with a bounty like that, can you blame us?” The others laugh, but the smiles don’t reach their eyes. “Somebody on the way to town told us to look for her out this way. We thought we might find you here.”

“The place was empty when I arrived,” Din gets straight to the point, “I think she might have left it abandoned. I’ve been waiting for her to return.”

Tate smiles, “I thought you might say something like that.” 

It happens quicker than the light flashing against his armor—weapons are drawn and he’s got the barrel of a blaster resting at the edge of his mask. Din keeps his own blaster aimed at Tate, but he watches the others in his periphery, tracking their movements. 

“You gotta get a more subtle look, Mando, if you’re gonna be tellin’ lies like that. We heard from a few different people that they saw you chasin’ the girl out of the cantina.” He steps closer, twirling the blade with surprising dexterity given the meatiness of fingers, and from this distance, Din can see the dirt caked into the creases of Tate’s face, see the shadow of a beard growing over his skin. 

“So now I’m forced to wonder,” Tate continues at a whisper, “where you’ve got her stashed if she’s not here, hmmm?” Din keeps silent, shifting his grip on his blaster, putting the slightest amount of pressure on the trigger.

“Where is she, Mando?” he asks again, but his gaze flickers to the zabrak, a movement so minute he almost dismisses it, until he shifts to check on the twi’lek. Din lets out a low sigh through his nose. Tate thinks he’s got the upper hand on him based on numbers alone. In his mind, he’s already won.

“She back on your ship?” he asks again, growing impatient with Din refusal to accept defeat, “she out there with that little green freak you stole?”

The sound of the shot booms in response and Tate stumbles back, hand at his midsection, checking for the burn of the blaster bolt, but it’s the twi’lek who falls, eyes rolling back into her head before she lands with a thump, the blaster falling from her hand.

Din’s already aiming again, for Tate this time but the shot goes wide as the zabrak catches him on the shoulder with the club. His knees buckle and he fights to stay standing, blocking the next swing with his forearm. Wood clangs against beskar and Din grunts at the impact, pain sparking through his armor. 

He’s hardly recovered before he hears the metallic slash, feels the burn in the open space where the pauldron meets his chest plate, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees red. 

One of them hits him in square in the chest, and then there’s a boot at his neck. He places one hand at the heel, but the other isn’t cooperating—a strange tingle travels from the tips of his fingers up to his shoulder, and it _burns_ , dead at this side.

“Gonna ask you one more time, Mando,” Tate leans over him and Din sees black around the edges of his vision, fighting for every breath, “where’s the girl?” 

Din says nothing, willing some kind of life into his arm, struggling against the weight of the world for one more lungful of air. He hopes you’ll keep the kid safe. 

There’s a streak of red that shoots across his vision, and it’s funny to him; no one ever mentioned that as a part of dying, but he’ll accept it. There’s another—he lets his eyes fall closed. And then the weight is lifted and he can breathe again, and he falls into a deep and restless sleep.


End file.
